


Silent Warfare

by Generouslyinnercheesecake



Series: Earth Destiny [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Read Janus Before Reading This, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Generouslyinnercheesecake/pseuds/Generouslyinnercheesecake
Summary: Many things were left unsaid after the heroes from the past returned back to their time.//Please read my other story, Janus, before reading this!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All public characters, settings, etc. are not mine and are property of DC comics. I am not making money off of this work. All my original characters/plot are property of me, the author, and I am not associated with DC comics in any way, shape or form. 
> 
> TW: This story, as you may have noticed from the tags, deals with rape, suicide, and graphic forms of violence. If you are triggered by those particular things, DO NOT read this story please. Never sacrifice your mental health for anything. 
> 
> That saying, if you feel as though I am portraying this certain event inaccurately, my comments are open for ANYONE to speak—even if you’re anonymous. Even if you don’t have a criticism, my comments are open for anyone who would like to talk about their personal stories. You are loved, and there is always someone to listen. 
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy the story. All love.

As A’ma awoke from her unconsciousness, she thought of how she had ended up there. She couldn’t remember much, only the minute details...

_Going to bed late since she was reading a book in the library...getting lost in her own imagination. The smell of the metal on her neck when she arrived in her bedroom, tired—she couldn’t see much anyway since it was pitch black. The feeling of the needle being stabbed into her thigh and consciousness slipping from her grasp._

A’ma was now chained with little feeling or control of her powers. She could only hypothesize that they gave her inhibiting serum. She looked around. A dim, dank cell made of stone and metal. _The damn metal_, for X’hal’s sake.

A’ma shook the chains, trying to determine how much they incapacitated her. They were strong, stubborn, and wouldn’t budge at all when she attempted to slip her slim hands through them.

After a minute or so of attempting to budge the chains, she gave up. There was no need to waste her energy, and her parents were probably already on their way. A’ma took a few deep breaths to calm her increasing heart rate.

Yes, her parents had given her some training for instances like this. Her parents didn’t sugarcoat much, and they had informed her that many xenophobic people would go after her for the sake of just being partially Arabic. A’ma clenched her jaw, trying to think of people who wanted her dead for her heritage. She couldn’t think of many, only a few—but they weren’t powerful enough to be able to do this.

Suddenly, she heard the clanking of keys and barely audible steps walking closer and closer to her cell. A’ma tried to lighten her eyes to appear as more of a threat, but she doubted anything happened. The suppressors made her feel anything but powerful.

When the woman entered her cell, A’ma’s jaw dropped. The woman’s complexion and familiar green eyes gave away her true relationship to A’ma.

Talia al Ghul pointedly scrutinized her appearance from head to toe.

“Why am I here?” A’ma questioned her biological grandmother with some aggression.

Talia narrowed her eyes and focused her attention completely on the girl’s face. “For the sake of my heritage,” Talia replied darkly.

A’ma narrowed her own eyes. “I am more than a heritage,” she bit back. A’ma could faintly see the spit launching from her mouth, but she didn’t care much. This, her father sugarcoated. His mother was such a deep part of his trauma, and A’ma could tell he was constantly terrified that Talia would come back for her own twisted revenge. A’ma’s own Grandpa Bruce had talked about Talia with her once or twice, which escalated to verbal arguments with A’ma’s dad.

The Arab woman smirked, almost making A’ma retract. _Too many times soaking in the pit gave her some madness._ “Your heritage defines you, A’mandine,” Talia said.

A’ma suddenly felt disgust rise up in her stomach. _She knew her name_. And probably everything else about her. She was positive that her ninja would stalk her the days—maybe even years leading up to her capture.

Talia continued, “I have no doubt that your mother and father informed you of me.” The woman tilted her head in a superior manner, then stared at the girl for a full minute. “You do not belong here, girl,” Talia said bluntly, her icy gaze unwavering.

A’ma sucked in a deep breath. She had heard that many times at school just for the sake of her being partially Arabic, but this was for a completely different reason. She had never actually heard that phrase because of her alien heritage.

“I am more than my heritage,” A’ma repeated defiantly.

Talia continued glaring at her, then snapped her fingers. Two ninja suddenly appeared from the cell entrance. Talia smirked wickedly, and this time A’ma actually shuddered.

“I have been watching your family.” Talia stepped forward, invading A’ma’s personal space. A’ma struggled against the chains. “Your mother cares for you,” the woman informed her, as if she were presenting evidence in a court case.

A’ma’s nostrils flared angrily. “My mother is not of your concern!” She barked out.

Before she could blink, she felt a sword leisurely slice down her arm. The tangy smell of blood invaded her senses, and the smell of the metal made her head dizzy.

“_No_. Your mother should be less of a concern when regarding Damian,” Talia narrowed her eyes once again, looking straight into the girl’s eyes. Talia ordered something in Arabic, making one of her ninja put a sword to her neck. A’ma never broke her glare at the woman in front of her.

Talia sighed and clicked her tongue. “Ever since I shoved that boy into his father’s grasp, he has caused nothing but dysfunction,” Talia admitted, anger permeating in her voice. “That family has completely distorted Damian’s true beliefs and ideologies. Which is why _you_ are of concern to me.”

A’ma gulped, feeling the sword make an indent against her throat. “Then why not just kill me?” A’ma asked shakily. She inwardly chastised herself._ Get it together, A’mie. _

Talia clenched her jaw. “To prolong your suffering,” she replied just as the other ninja made another slash against her thigh.

A’ma sucked in a breath through her teeth, hissing. The throbbing pain in her arm was beginning to make her vision go blurry, and the new wound made her involuntarily retract into her own body. The ninja pressed his sword harder against her neck, causing her to twitch in discomfort.

“If you elude me, you will die by your own will nevertheless.”

Her parents _had_ to be coming. They should’ve noticed her absence from breakfast. And if not, they should’ve noticed a change in presence by dinner. A’ma didn’t know how long she was out, but she hoped it was for a long period of time. Long enough for her family to figure out she was gone. They wouldn’t forget about her, _right_?

Talia took her own sword out of her sheath. “I constantly condemned Damian for his indulgences in his acts of torture, but I myself shall admit that I will enjoy this.” And the woman’s lips upturned as she made another slashing along A’ma’s other thigh.

This time, A’ma cried out. The 11-year-old girl inwardly berated herself for doing such a thing. It was then that Talia’s previous words sunk in. _Her father did these exact same things_. He completely disregarded the life of actual beings. Yes, this woman could’ve been lying, but it was unlikely. A’ma had read many files on Ra’s al Ghul, and though he was a master manipulator, a liar he was not. Perhaps his daughter was the same.

Her father was not whom she thought he was, she had concluded in that moment.

Talia, with the sword now in her left hand, suddenly grabbed A’ma chin, making the girl peer up at her. “Look at me,” Talia ordered sharply, and A’ma was once again reminded why her dad rarely spoke of his biological mother.

Talia, in the blink of an eye, backhanded A’ma harshly. A’ma could feel, taste the blood leaking from her lips from the force of the hit. The taste marked an indent in her memory—something she would never forget.

Faster than she could whip her head back, a punch landed on her other cheek. This time A’ma gasped loudly, as if she were begging for air. Her vision blurred even more, and the feeling of the metal against her wrists made her struggle against the chains even more.

_The smell...the smell_...

A’ma panted pitifully. “Stop.” She had said before she wouldn’t resort to begging for release, but all of her previous thoughts suddenly didn’t matter. A’ma pulled against the chains again, attempting to bring her legs to her chest. If she were curled up in a ball perhaps the horrible rock in her stomach would feel less heavy and her panic cease.

Talia didn’t stop.

She delivered another dizzying punch to her jaw, and A’ma immediately felt the bone bruise meanly. The girl bit her tongue harshly, attempting to stop the rising and rising panic. She tried to feel, taste her own blood to feel something. Her head was far too gone, however, to be able to recognize true feeling anymore.

“You are nothing,” she heard Talia mutter angrily. A’ma briefly wondered if her father ever experienced anything similar to this—especially at the hand of his own mother—or if he was actually the executor, as Talia had alluded to.

Another blow was delivered, and this time, she was unable to even tell if Talia was the one to give it. Her vision was black at the edges, and the tunnel vision was already distorted. “Stop,” A’ma repeated desperately, the gasps building and building in her far-too-dense chest. Something felt wrong; she vaguely thought that _this is what death feels like_.

The sword at her neck dropped and instead traced her hips. A’ma’s gasps intensified, and the dense feeling in her chest suddenly flared up, making her hot and sweaty. _Something felt wrong thesmellthemetalsomethingiswrong_-

She heard Talia step back, then snap again. Four more ninja appeared instantly. A’ma blinked slowly, her energy suddenly feeling depleated. She heard Talia speak to the men in Arabic.

“_Do what you wish, just don’t kill the girl._”

A’ma’s face felt wet with tears, and her panic flared again. “No,” she resisted, weakly. The men barely gave the girl a glance, but bowed down to Talia.

A’ma heard steps fading away from the cell, then the men all turned their head to her. A’ma struggled harder against the chains, but it was no use. She began sobbing, her true age shining. “No!” She screamed, a surge of adrenaline making an appearance similar to a monsoon.

The six men all leered at her. The man tracing her hips with his sword grasped her ratty shirt, pulling her whole body towards him. “Stop!” She screamed again, but the men ignored her and lifted her shirt to bunch on her neck. A’ma felt tears roll down her cheeks.

Another man pulled down her sleep shorts not too long after that, all while A’ma was squirming desperately against the chains. Another man laughed while A’ma resisted, causing the girl to feel bile rise in her throat.

She breathed deeply, trying to control the involuntary reaction, but was only met with the smell of metal. _Metal, metal, metal...._the word kept repeating in her exhausted brain. _Fucking metal_.

She felt the man who lifted her shirt grab her chest, then the other man touched the place between her legs, evading her panties. A’ma squirmed harder. “No,” she repeated. “Stop.” It began feeling like a chant at that point.

“_Enchanting_,” the man whispered in Arabic.

The tears continued falling.

“No!” She screamed again, another surge of adrenaline coming—the monsoon reared it’s head again.

The men suddenly stopped, and she felt the storm begin to clear. 

The guard took out a key, then unlocked A’ma’s chains. A’ma gasped, thankful, then fell to the ground in a shaking heap, her sleeping shorts bunched around her ankles. Before she could take another gasp, however, she saw the men tying a rope around her wrists above her head. The panic surged again, making her head and chest feel heavy.

The man reached for her panties, but A’ma kicked her legs. “_Hold her down_!” She heard the man order in Arabic.

“No!” She screamed. No doubt Talia, even though she was gone, could hear everything. She needed to scream loud enough for her parents to come and save her. Before these men _took_ her.

The men finally were able to take off her panties, and then it was all a blur. She felt pain in between her legs, and could see a man over her, a satiated look in his eyes. She felt the liquid _in_ her.

She couldn’t make any noises at that point, absolute exhaustion washing over her violated body.

Violated. She felt violated. She felt completely barren—emotionally and physically and mentally—and the men completely used her for their own sick pleasure.

She felt disgusted by herself. Because of her own body’s natural reaction. She felt disgusted by her own body and her own emotional incompetence to handle this situation. _I am the daughter of Batman and Nightstar. I should fight back. Do _something_ within my own ability._

A’ma felt the men use whatever they could, and heard their sighs of pleasure when they were done with her. She heard their comments in Arabic. How she felt, how she reacted. She hated how she reacted and the metal _the metal the metal the **metal**._

She thought about four men had their chance with her before she heard the pummeling of bodies around her. She felt her torn-up clothing hastily placed back over her—a complete disregard for her panties and only her sleep shirt and shorts. A’ma closed her eyes tightly, expecting the men to hit her, but was thankfully mistaken. She thought her panties were somewhere across the cell.

She heard the surprised cry of Red Robin, then the frantic calling he made over his comm..

But most of all, she felt bare. Someone she loved saw her like this, and she couldn’t help but feel too vulnerable. The girl felt tears fall down her cheeks, then she thought to herself, _Why am I feeling? How am I feeling?_

_Why me?_

Everything felt so numb.

Her shaking didn’t cease when she felt her father’s presence in the room. Tears fell down her cheeks harder, and the rock in her chest grew and grew.

She couldn’t tell what her dad said to her, but she nodded anyways. A heavy cape suddenly covered her entire body, and she didn’t feel as bare.

Before she could feel anything else, blackness overcame her and she passed out.

* * *

As Damian picked up his daughter, he felt bile rise in his throat.

His stiff arms carried her past Red Robin, who appeared extremely distressed. Tim gulped, looking around at the unconscious, partially naked ninja, and feeling absolute dread settle in his stomach.

Batman was able to incapacitate Talia, but her ninja had been incessant. And as Damian rushed out of the palace, he felt frantic. Not the type of frantic you feel when you’re late for a meeting—no, this word had a completely different meaning.

Damian carried his daughter’s body all the way to the plane, Red Robin trailing him uneasily. A few ninja came and went, all of them being knocked out by the eldest hero.

When the bay opened and welcomed in the three people, Mar’i immediately reached for her daughter.

She was frantic, desperate. “Baby,” she whispered tearfully, carefully cupping A’ma’s head. Her frantic alien eyes looked back up at the two men. “What happened?” She questioned. When she got no response, and only sad gazes, she repeated it, more scared than anything. “What happened?!”

Damian held his daughter to his chest tighter. Mar’i felt tears rise up in her eyes and absolute dread settle in her stomach. “Oh X’hal!” She yelled, looking directly at the two men. “Please don’t tell me she’s...” Mar’i trailed off, not wanting to say that one word. “Oh X’hal, please,” she put her face to her daughter’s neck, almost as if she were trying to transfer the pain from her daughter to herself.

Damian felt paralyzed, an explanation unable to form in his head. Thankfully, Tim spoke up for him, “She’s...alive,” he explained shakily. Mar’i took in a gasping breath, suddenly feeling lighter. “But she passed out from shock,” Tim informed her.

Mar’i looked up from her daughter’s neck, and glared at her husband. “Get her inside,” she ordered. “We can help her there,” Mar’i told him, stepping back from her family.

Damian didn’t nod, but just forced his heavy legs forward to the medical area of the plane. Tim and Mar’i trailed behind him.

When he placed his daughter down on the cot, he felt the acidic burn of the bile rise up his throat. Knowing he was now unable to suppress it, he picked up a trash can and vomited. The acidic burn made tears roll down his face, but he continued vomiting.

_A’ma is hurting more._

He could hear his wife and Tim working on A’ma, Mar’i probed the other hero as they rushed to help the girl. When Mar’i pulled back the cape, she sucked in a deep breath. She noticed the deep slashes, but most importantly, battered clothing that was hastily placed over her body before Tim knocked out the ninja. “Oh my...” Mar’i cried out. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_,” she muttered pitifully to herself. Tim hastily placed an oxygen mask over A’ma’s mouth after checking for vomit.

Damian’s own heart constricted painfully at his wife’s cries. “Mar’i,” Tim gasped out, unable to keep the desperation at bay. “I’ll get Dick,” he managed out before leaving in a rush.

Mar’i’s own shaking hands ran through her daughter’s inky hair, checking for bumps. She began hastily cleaning the slashes and blood surrounding it, carefully placing bandages over the wounds.

Mar’i felt another familiar presence in the room. “Daddy,” she muttered, her lower lip quivering. After Mar’i placed the final bandage, she turned around and fell into her father’s arms. He instantly began consoling her, kissing her hairline and rubbing her back.

Damian, done with his vomiting, turned his attention back to A’ma. The father placed two stacked pillows under A’ma’s feet. He sighed, then hurriedly slammed through cabinets to find an IV to raise her blood pressure. When he found one, he immediately hooked that into a vein in her arm.

Damian, when done with setting up the fluid, re-covered her dirty body with his cape.

When Mar’i was tired from crying so much, she retracted from her father and moved back to her daughter’s side. Dick, now able to see his granddaughter’s state, looked up questioningly at Damian. Damian avoided the man’s eyes.

“What happened?” Dick asked, voice seemingly calm. However, his expression was telling of how he truly felt. _Anger, anger, anger._..When no one answered, Dick questioned again. “What. Happened?” He asked more firmly, his resolve beginning to slip.

Mar’i’s posture lowered. “I wasn’t-“

They all heard a muffled groan coming from the table.

A’ma, suddenly awake, took in a deep breath and peered around the room. When she saw her mother, her expression hardened. A’ma felt the sudden urge to vomit when she saw her grandfather and father. “I need-“ she said before her stomach lurched, making her entire body lurch along with it. A’ma shoved the oxygen mask off her face.

Mar’i jumped up and picked up the small trashcan at the end of the cot. When she gave it to A’ma, the girl instantly began vomiting in the trash can, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Mar’i hesitantly soothed her daughter’s back, all while tears ran down her own cheeks.

The girl made didn’t regard her other relatives by the time they arrived at the cave, only keeping her face hidden in the depths of the trash can.

By the time the bay-lift lowered, A’ma was still shaking and in a trance. Mar’i and Damian glanced at each other over her head, their eyes saying,_ we need to give her a sedative before she goes into shock again._

Mar’i looked down at her daughter, whose shoulders were getting lower and lower with each passing moment. “A’ma, Honey,” she started, though her daughter didn’t break her trance, “is it okay if we give you a sedative?”

A’ma flinched. “No! No,” she said hurriedly. She would only wake up from her induced sleep crying, dreaming of the events in gross detail.

Mar’i looked over at her husband again, who just nodded sadly. “It’s okay, A’ma. You won’t have to,” she replied patiently.

“Can we carry you to the cave?” Mar’i asked gently. A’ma nodded quietly in response.

Damian was reaching for her daughter when A’ma twitched involuntarily. “Stop,” A’ma resisted weakly, so Damian halted. She couldn’t even glance at her father while saying this. Probably wouldn’t be able to look at her father for days after this. A’ma looked up at her mother. “Mama.”

Mar’i took the hint and hesitantly picked up her baby, whom was still shaking. The girl shifted around in her arms, obviously uncomfortable. “I know, Honey,” Mar’i whispered before kissing her forehead.

But Mar’i didn’t know. And the impending darkness that seemed to consume her daughter’s innocence and her own soul with each second passing was relenting. The uncertainty of how to deal with such a severe situation was...scary and depressing. How was she supposed to feel about this? How was she supposed to help her baby?

And A’ma felt...like a child. Yes—she’s acting like a child, but that gave them no right to be treated like one at this moment.

Damian, Dick, and Tim all trailed behind her, uncertain of how to handle the situation. By the time they got to the main anatomy of the cave, Mar’i dropped her daughter on a sturdy table near the med-bay.

Damian turned around to look at both Tim and Dick, his expression saying everything. Both of the men left without any hassle, only with concerned glances. Damian stood behind his wife, his shoulders suddenly feeling too heavy. They felt as though they held the weight of the entire world and more, causing his knees to almost give in.

“Îngeraș, we love you so much,” Mar’i told A’ma, gently, in that vulnerable, motherly way. Mar’i felt completely useless—her daughter’s body language was closed off so she was unable to give any physical comfort. A’ma’s tan arms wrapped around her dirty legs, almost as if trying to make herself seem smaller.

Mar’i’s attention was now fully focused on her daughter, tunnel vision and all. Damian stared down into the ground, willing himself not to cry. _Not yet. Not around A’mandine._

“May I just be with Mama?” A’ma asked her father quietly. Yes, she felt bad, but the man just looked too similar to _her_.

Damian remained docile and listened to her request, shakily moving towards the showers. He felt dirty anyway. The weight on his shoulders almost crushed him on his way, but he managed.

A’ma reached for her shirt after letting go of her legs, shuddering inwardly. She’s read of this process so many times, but experiencing it was something completely different.

Mar’i sniffed when her daughter was fully undressed, silent tears beginning to well up in her eyes yet again. When Mar’i procured the evidence bag and placed all the clothing in it properly, she zipped it up and dropped it under the table.

“I can’t look at Father again,” A’ma admitted, guilt radiating in her voice. Mar’i choked on the gasp, sob that came out of her mouth, and A’ma couldn’t help but flinch.

_Please don’t let this ruin their relationship.  
_

“Your...” Mar’i closed her mouth, calculating what to say next. “Dad is not your biological grandmother,” she finished hesitantly.

It was silent for a moment. Then, “Ok.” By this time, the little girl was finished with removing her clothing. Mar’i moved to another table, searching for a heavy blanket. No doubt A’ma felt too bare again, and needed something to cover her.

A’ma was confused. Her own father had been raised by the same monster that had just conducted her ra.._.No need to talk about that now._

Nevertheless, her father was not who she thought he was. Maybe under his exterior, he was a completely different person. A person who had deceived A’ma’s mother, grandfather, herself, and her siblings. Apparently Grandpa Dick and Dad had a good partnership, but perhaps her dad was acting the entire time.

But it never _felt_ like that. The moments A’ma had with him were genuine and made her feel happy. He seemed so carefree around his family—his walls down and guard surrendered. A’ma had, even though she could count them on one hand, seen him in his most vulnerable moments. She had been told stories of his sacrifice for their family countless times.

A pretender would not do that.

By the time Mar’i covered her entire body in the brown blanket, A’ma seemed to be coming to real life. Mar’i almost smiled when she noticed her daughter’s hands stopped shaking, but the thought was wiped from her head when A’ma burst into tears.

Heart-wrenching, absolutely broken tears that Mar’i could only describe as, ‘lost’. A’ma clutched the blanket around her, almost as if trying to protect herself. Mar’i didn’t hesitate this time to pull her daughter in a warm embrace.

A’ma’s whole small frame shook around Mar’i as she held her daughter, and Mar’i couldn’t help but let the silent tears roll down her face as this was happening. A’ma’s hiccups broke her mother’s heart over and over again.

_What will the future hold?_

Mar’i closed her eyes briefly, the uncertainty sinking in again.

_What will the future hold?_

A’ma wails subsided for a moment, causing Mar’i to stop rubbing the younger girl’s back. But Mar’i’s shirt, which was now in A’ma’s tight grasp, didn’t release even a bit. A’ma’s cries picked up again. They were...desperate? Scared? Lost? Every emotion Mar’i could think of encased in the cries of her daughter.

“Ma...ma...a,” A’ma choked helplessly against her mother’s torso. Her tears couldn’t stop now that they started; she had never felt more hopeless than in those few minutes. Her own clutch on her mother’s clothing felt like one way she could avoid insanity, the cloth smelling something similar to home—fruity, flowery, but also with a hint of her father’s comforting masculine scent.

“I’m here, A’ma. We’re all here,” Mar’i reminded her quietly before kissing her daughter’s hairline. The gasps waned a bit, making Mar’i sag helplessly against her own daughter.

Damian came back from the showers a minute after that, hair wet and eyes downward. He shakily stepped one foot in front of another, hesitance yet also desperation leaking through his posture. After he got to the table, A’ma let go of her mother’s waist and instead placed her hands under her thighs. The blanket still lied draped over her frame.

Damian dropped down to his knees in order to communicate better with A’ma. Besides, he didn’t think that he would be able to hold himself up when he uttered his next words.

The man hesitated. Once, twice, then thrice. Then, in his fourth attempt at conveying his thoughts, he uttered, “I am so sorry.”

A’ma began wailing again. Damian’s own tearful eyes looked at the girl sadly, not knowing what to do. He had read so many parenting books, but they never prepared him for _this_.

Mar’i, with little hesitation, stroked her daughter’s hair again in a comforting gesture. After the heaving in her chest eased, A’ma looked up and gazed through her father. “It’s not your fault,” she stated, her voice shaking.

That sent him over the edge. Tears poured down Damian’s face before he could stop them. But he wouldn’t be able to otherwise.

“When you found me at the base and those men were...” A’ma wrapped her arms around herself again and stared at the floor blankly, tears seemingly unable to come up anymore. “You beat them. You didn’t hurt me. She hurt me. She let them hurt me.”

A’ma wouldn’t be able to say her name for years to come.

The weight in Damian’s chest eased a bit knowing that his daughter didn’t blame him for his negligence. “I-“ he attempted to continue, but the words didn’t come to him.

Mar’i ran her hand through his hair.

“It’s okay, Dami.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. I’m back with another chapter. Just wanted to let you know that this chapter deals with most of the subjects I’ve tagged, so please beware if you are sensitive to those things. Also, like in Young Justice, Dinah Lance is a psychologist in this. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

Not much happened after that, the family just basking in the presence of one another. A’ma was still shaking by the time she trudged up to her room, but she felt a little lighter knowing her family was not going to let her out of their sight. 

She took a long shower, scrubbing her invaded skin until it was red and angry. But by the time she stepped out, she still felt _dirty_. 

The numbness was physical and emotional and mental—it manifested A’ma’s whole being in a way that made her weak at the knees. She didn’t understand: everything felt so numb, yet she was still feeling everything. 

She fucking hated that feeling, yet she would feel it for weeks to come. 

A’ma only fell asleep for short increments of time that night and many nights after that. Her sleeping consisted of her resting for about two hours, then waking up sweaty and crying. She would eventually drift into sleep again, then the cycle would repeat. 

That night, she got four hours of sleep separated into three naps. When she woke up from her last nap, the analog clock on her nightstand revealed the time to be five o‘clock AM. A’ma scrunched up her nose, then rolled over to place her feet on the ground. 

Before she could think about it, she walked into the connected bathroom to take another shower. A’ma turned the water to a lukewarm temperature—she couldn’t handle the stifling heat or cold. Her shower lasted for about an hour; her constant nodding off into sleep and scrubbing of her skin didn’t make it a very enjoyable one. 

By the time she got out and glanced at the clock, it was almost six o’clock. She speedily got dressed in some sweatpants and t-shirt, making sure to cover her feet up with wool socks. The manor felt _so _ _cold_. 

A’ma quietly stepped down the stairs from her room to the kitchen, fully intending to grab a granola bar and water and retreat back into her room for the rest of the day. However, when she reached the kitchen, she instantly noticed the five figures talking quietly to each other. At least, it  looked  like they were whispering to each other, but A’ma could hear every little word. 

A’ma’s presence was immediately noticed, as Mar’i looked over her shoulder to see her daughter fully. Mar’i placed a tired smile on her face. “Hey, Honey,” she greeted far-too-happily. It seemed as though they had stayed up all night, mulling over the previous day’s events. “Do you want breakfast?” Mar’i asked A’ma with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

A’ma shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “Not hungry.” Truly, she didn’t  feel  hungry. The Rock of Dread still lied in her stomach. _Why did I come down, again? _

Mar’i’s fake smile twitched. “You need to eat, A’ma,” Mar’i stated gently. A’ma just shook her head stubbornly. And suddenly she could smell the whiff of the metal silverware in the spoon drawer. 

_No. Stop_. 

“Did you need water?” Bruce asked her. A’ma blinked. The man’s casualness was something she hadn’t received in the last day. At least someone was treating her as an actual human being. 

A’ma nodded. “I can get it,” she said harshly. The three other men raised their eyebrows at her sudden mood change. A’ma didn’t say anything, instead lowering her gaze and walked to the cup cabinet. 

“How’d you sleep?” Dick questioned her further. 

“Fine,” she replied stiffly, still not looking at the five adults. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a granola bar?” This time, her mother asked A’ma. 

A’ma clenched her jaw.  _ Overbearing. Annoying.  Loud!  _ “I am not hungry.”

Damian frowned. “How are you feeling?” He questioned her. 

A’ma suddenly felt the glass cup break under her intense clench on it. Glass shards landed ungracefully on the floor and counter, while some shards remained in her still-tense hand. Blood sprouted from her palm. A gorgeous, rich red that dripped all the way down to her fingertips in tiny droplets. 

Tim immediately leaped from his spot at the counter, fully intending to cover the young girl’s cuts. A’ma, who was now staring at the cuts in amazement— _finally feel something_— moved her bloody hand in front of her to avoid Tim getting closer to her. 

Tim, in an instant, stopped his legs, still a few feet away from A’ma. “I...” he wanted to apologize, but A’ma glared directly at the man, almost daring him to say the two other words. 

“Fine,” she muttered shortly before moving to the first-aid kit above the microwave. She easily began tending to her wounds, making sure to wrap the palm snuggly. 

Tim still stood there, a grimace on his face. When she was done, and noticed Tim’s expression, she repeated, “Fine.” However, his countenance did not ease. 

Mar’i sighed sadly before walking past Tim to make sure her daughter wrapped her wounds correctly. Thankfully, the girl was adept enough in basic medical practices so Mar’i didn’t need to do anything. “We’re just worried about you,” Mar’i told A’ma gently. A’ma didn’t bother looking back up at her mother. 

“Too bad,” A’ma said, suddenly angry. Mar’i appeared taken aback, but the girl continued. “Treat me like everyone else,” the girl demanded before rushing out of the kitchen. 

“You went through something traumatic, A’ma,” Bruce stated bluntly, making A’ma stop her movements. “I know it will feel like you’re an outcast, but we’re treating you differently because you need it,” Bruce elaborated. 

A’ma didn’t bother facing the five adults. “Nothing happened. I’m okay,” she declared, her voice somehow weak. 

“Honey...” A’ma’s mother started in that same sympathetic, teary voice. It made A’ma’s eyes well up with tears. She inwardly degraded herself.  _I thought I cried enough last night. How am I being so...?_ A’ma couldn’t think of any appropriate word to describe her current state. 

_I’m making Mama cry!_

“I’m fine!” A’ma suddenly yelled. Mar’i jerked in her spot. “I just...” A’ma took a deep breath.  _Control yourself, you stupid girl_.  “I need time alone,” A’ma finished quietly. The smell of the metal intensified. 

Dick sucked in a deep breath. _No way in _ _hell_ was A’ma going to cope unhealthily. How her grandfather did for too many years. “We’re always here, A’ma,” Dick reminded her gently. 

A’ma felt another surge of anger race through her blood, and before she could control herself, she reached to her right and smashed an antique vase that was lying on the side table. “I’m fucking fine!” She bit out, her voice cracking at the end. “Absolutely nothing happened, so stop pretending that anything did,” she lowered her voice shakily. 

She hated that tears were now falling down her face freely. A’ma aggressively wiped them away. 

“A’ma,” Damian began calmly. A’ma still refused to face any of them. “You were tortured and raped by multiple men,” he stated, his voice quivering unsteadily. 

A’ma still couldn’t face them. _Their disappointed faces_. “No,” she repeated. “I wanted it. I-I told them to,” A’ma blurted out. 

Mar’i and Damian looked at one another uneasily. “No, Honey,” Mar’i said gently. 

A’ma suddenly felt angry tears fill her eyes, already falling over onto her tan cheeks. She didn’t know what to say. Some small part of her brain was insisting it didn’t happen, that she asked for it—but another, larger part of her brain was absolutely furious with the men. She was completely aware of her own stupidity, but A’ma’s mouth had somehow taken control of everything she was saying. Her brain was in such contrast with her words, that the only thing she could do to express herself was through anger. 

“I’m  tired ,” A’ma muttered. And, truly, she was. But she couldn’t know why. 

A’ma heard her mother take a few steps closer. “I know, Îngeraș,” Mar’i said calmly. The steps came closer and closer until she was behind A’ma. Mar’i hesitated when she put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We love you,” Mar’i reminded her daughter softly. 

“I-I know.” A’ma clenched her jaw. 

Damian sighed behind her. “We made an appointment for you to see Miss Jenkins,” he told A’ma. 

A’ma immediately tensed. “I don’t want-“ she stopped her running mouth. “I am-“ she started before being interrupted by Dick. 

“Fine?” 

A’ma let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in, the anger simmering behind her tear-filled eyes. Before she could destroy anything else, she stomped out of the room. 

* * *

The appointment was an absolute nightmare. The woman, Patty Jenkins, had been her pediatrician for her entire life, but her disregard for A’ma’s feelings only made the girl more uncooperative. 

“I’ll give you some privacy,” the woman said before leaving the room. A’ma looked down at the gown in her hand and wondered:_ why should I be putting this on? _

A’ma changed quickly. She disliked feeling uncovered. The more she had to change, the more she was reminded of yesterday’s events. “Done!” The girl yelled out. 

Miss Jenkins came back into the room, a grim look on her face. A’ma could only guess she was just talking to her parents, whom were standing outside the room. “Okay, Sweetie,” Patty starts, a fake optimism laced in her voice, “can you lie down and put your feet up on the stirrups?” 

A’ma’s face went blank. “No.” When Miss Jenkins mentioned stirrups, A’ma instantly knew what was coming next. And she wouldn’t-no, couldn’t do it. 

Patty sighed heavily, then said, “I know this must feel demeaning, Miss A’ma, but I need to check if you’re safe.” 

A’ma felt disgusted. Both with herself and those men. “No,” she repeated. This _had_ to be the worst of the appointment. 

Patty looked as though she was sucking on a particularly sour lemon. “Sweetie, this needs to be done to help you in the future,” the nurse recites again. A’ma was not convinced. 

“I can’t,” A’ma admits after a minute of silence. Patty sighs, but this time it’s pitifully. A’ma felt disgusted with herself. 

“I know you can, Sweetie.” And Patty looks at her with that same sympathetic way her mother and father do. A’ma felt tired. And this time, she doesn’t think it’s from not getting enough sleep last night. 

A’ma pouted. She knew she was being petulant, but she couldn’t help it. It still feels as though everything in her body has been taken over by someone else—like she was stuck in her mind and watching everything from the inside. 

Without saying anything, she placed her feet on the stirrups and covers her face with her hands. 

_She feels disgusted by herself._

* * *

Thankfully, nothing was sexually transmitted, and she hadn’t started her period yet, so the possibility of pregnancy was very little. Still, they had her wait a couple more weeks to take a pregnancy test. The results, thankfully, came out negative after the two weeks ended. 

In those fourteen days, she had learned that the sight of blood dripping from her open skin made her euphoric. 

The first time she did it to herself intentionally, she had a panic attack. When she dropped the broken piece of razor on the floor, she felt her body being pulled down by this invisible force and the dizziness distort her vision. 

A’ma, with shaking hands, wrapped up her stomach and hurriedly splashed water on her face to stop the incessant burning. She threw the razor in the trashcan, then thought that maybe self-infliction wasn’t her thing. 

But.

She came back after remembering how the blood felt and looked dripping down her torso. And as she made her second official cut, she suddenly felt calmness wash over her. The panic was no longer there, and she had never felt more in control of herself in her entire life. 

She fucking loved it. 

After the fourteen days were up and the test came out negative, she didn’t feel as selfish when she hurt herself. Especially when she cut her stomach. Eventually, she ran out of space on her stomach so she ventured down to her thighs. She had felt the disgust and hatred for herself melt away when she saw the blood drip onto her skin. The flashbacks always ceased when she was solely focused on the razor and skin. 

It was absolutely addicting. 

Her relatives were constantly concerned—that she was sleeping, eating, and feeling enough. She knew she wasn’t, but she was okay with that. 

* * *

As A’ma looked at the blonde woman in front of her, she wondered yet again why she didn’t fight her parents on this. The woman didn’t have a notepad and pen, but only the same sympathetic expression on her beautiful face.

“How are you feeling today?” Dinah asked kindly. 

_The fucking expression_.

“Fine,” A’ma replied offhandedly. She knew this wouldn’t work for her. Nothing would. 

Dinah’s face hardened a bit. “How are you truly feeling, A’mandine?” She questioned. 

“Fine,” the girl repeated—it was like a chant at this point. “A little tired,” A’ma added, not looking directly at the blonde woman. 

Dinah nodded, obviously not fully satisfied with the answer yet still managing with it. “That’s understandable. You probably haven’t been getting much sleep since what happened,” Dinah said. A’ma’s eyebrows furrowed angrily, and Dinah was suddenly struck again with how many tics the girl shared with her father. 

“Nothing happened,” A’ma restated, her mouth once again taking over her thoughts. That felt like a chant too. “I asked for it,” she explained. 

Dinah frowned. She opened her mouth once, then shut it. The woman spoke up after carefully compounding what she needed to say. “Sometimes, when something traumatic happens, our brains trick us into believing what actually didn’t happen,” Dinah explained gently. 

That stupid word, that her family has been throwing around so easily. 

Traumatic. 

She wasn’t  _traumatized_.  Her grandparents and father and mother were all  _traumatized_ . She couldn’t be, considering worse things happened to her relatives. No, she wasn’t. 

And yet, A’ma couldn’t convey that to Dinah. She stayed silent for the rest of the session, even after Dinah kept asking her questions. 

* * *

After two weeks (since The Incident), she still hadn’t seen her siblings. Atalaya was most likely told what was going on, but Ry’an...A’ma didn’t know. He was so young. 

What would her baby brother think of it? Would he even be able to  understand  it? A’ma had no idea what they told him. 

She almost didn’t want to know. 

* * *

A’ma, after two weeks of self-harming, ventured to her wrists. Yes, it was cliched and typical, but it gave her a better view of the blood running down her skin. 

Then  _it_ happened. 

She, honestly, hadn’t meant for the razor to go that deep, but she wanted  _more_.

As soon as the razor penetrated deeper, she felt faint—and not the addictive kind of faint...it was her body telling her she went too far. The tangy smell of her blood was almost invasive, and as she stumbled to the side of the tub, creating a echoing  bang , she couldn’t help but feel at peace with how this was going to end. 

A’ma didn’t hear the bedroom door being opened by her mother—the blood running through her so fast that it produced a ringing noise in her ears. There was so much more blood than the other times she had done it, and she suddenly felt more euphoric than before. Maybe even manic. But as soon as those feelings came up, she felt disappointed in herself. 

_ Selfish, selfish, selfish ... _

She remembered a woman screaming and the feeling of being carried downstairs, like how she was being carried out of the plane after The Incident. Her euphoria was then replaced with sadness as the memories of that night flickered beneath her closed eyelids. 

A’ma felt disappointed when she thought that the last memories she would recall before her death were the worst moments of her life. For this, she hated closing her eyes, but she felt  tired.  A different kind of tired—this time it was purely physical. 

* * *

A’ma woke up in a hospital bed, the monitor beeping to her side. She attempted to move her arms, but felt something holding them down at her sides. A’ma pulled against them again, but nothing much happened. 

She was trapped. 

She struggled against them again, but the sudden rock in her chest made her feel weak.  _Metal_.  The scent of the handcuffs felt stifling. 

_Deep breaths, you stupid girl._

A’ma inhaled deeply, attempting to control her sporadic respiration. Her hand twitched for the razor, but she was once again reminded of her paralyzed limbs. 

She heard quick steps enter her room, and the familiar smell of fruity perfume invaded her oversensitive senses. Her mother and father both entered the room with grim countenances in their faces, which changed when they noticed she was awake. And guilt and shame instantly washed over A’ma. 

_Selfish_. 

Mar’i had obviously been crying and upset, while her father’s eyes were lined with red. A’ma felt disgusted with herself.  How could she do this to them?

_I made Mama and Dad cry. _

“Mama.” That was the first time A’ma used that word to regard her mother since the incident. Mar’i’s face rumpled into tears for the third time that day. 

“Îngeraș,” her mother choked out before tears began running down her face again. 

A’ma struggled harder against the handcuffs. “Get me out of these things,” A’ma begged, “please.” She pushed and pulled, but nothing much happened. She was absolutely trapped, and the smell of the metal suddenly intensified even more. “Please!” The smell was invasive and disgusting—she wanted nothing more than the things being taken off her wrists. 

Her father frowned further, making A’ma want to suddenly throw up. “Please,” she pleaded again, her voice cracking, raw. Damian moved to her bed to press the nurse’s button, and the vomit was suppressed. They would take these handcuffs off. Damian remained at her bedside, and A’ma felt tears fill her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, the guilt tearing at her head and heart. “I’m sorry,” she repeated like a chant.

Her father couldn’t look at her when she said it the third time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you all. All love <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is the last chapter. Just wanted to say that I’m so grateful that I was able to write this story. My comments are always open for personal stories and any constructive criticism. Again, thank you all.

A’ma was later moved to the kid’s psychiatric unit in the hospital, but it honestly didn’t do much. There, the only things they did was diagnose her with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and watch over her constantly. 

She hated that—the label and somehow ‘explanation’ as to why she did what she did. It  _felt_ much more complex than a four word title. But they said they were glad that they were able to diagnose her with it. Said that they could find better treatment specialized just for her. 

A’ma didn’t quite believe that anything would help. 

But she just went along with everything. For her parents—whom she knew she disappointed. She was in there for a couple weeks, then was discharged with a stack-full of packets and pamphlets. A’ma just put them on her desk when she got home, completely disregarding their existence, but she guessed the sentiment was good. 

When she got home, her bedroom door was gone. 

All rights of privacy were taken from her—her door, all sharp objects, her laptop. She didn’t understand it. 

Why should any human be revoked their rights of privacy because of one choice they made? 

A few more days passed. In that time span, she had resorted to reading through the entire library (sparring sessions were also on hold). A’ma read through Austen, Fitzgerald, and Emerson, but they all blended together by the end of the week.  After reading through tons of their works, she moved her afternoons to working on the grand piano. The keys were familiar (she had played when she was a child), but she was forced to learn more songs. 

Her relatives were constantly watching her. 

She fucking hated it. 

A’ma felt like a child again—incapable of proper care for herself and having her parents watch her every second of every day. The days blended together in a cacophony of suppressed anger and frustration. 

One day, while her grandfather was watching over her ( _again_ ), she broke. A’ma slammed her hands against the piano keys, creating a horrid noise. “Why the hell can’t I have privacy?!” She screamed across the room directly to her grandfather. Bruce didn’t even twitch, just kept looking at her. “What the hell is so wrong with me that I can’t be treated like a human being!?” She screamed again, despising how her voice cracked at the end of her rhetoric. 

A’ma absolutely hated the feeling of crying when one is angry. Her throat tightened grossly, and the tears ran down her face before she could attempt to hold them in. Her whole body felt tight, like a coil. She couldn’t see much due to the tears in her eyes, the water blurring the whole world around her. 

Bruce clenched his jaw. Seeing his granddaughter like this made him feel for what his passed friend had to undergo. “You attempted to take your life,” he reminded her calmly. “We need to ensure you won’t attempt again.” 

A’ma’s chest heaved dangerously, and before she could stop herself, she pushed over the grand piano. It fell on its side, making various keys play all at once and creating another horrid noise. “I’m not going to!” Her hoarse voice yelled out. “Why don’t you just trust me?” She whispered. Her voice felt too dry to actually yell anymore.

Bruce didn’t say anything, so she just put her head in her shaking hands. She couldn’t do it anymore—it was too much yet too little. Too many wasted days yet so much emotional baggage that she couldn’t pack away anymore. “I can’t do this,” she admitted depressingly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m going insane.”

She heard her grandpa walk over to her, then he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go out,” he said suddenly, making A’ma lift her head. 

“What?” She inquired, confused. 

“Let’s get ice cream. Or go shopping,” Bruce suggested calmly. A’ma paused, then nodded her head. There was no true meaning to be stuck in the manor anyway. 

* * *

They arrived at the little ice cream shop across Sprang River; A’ma ordered Rocky Road while Bruce ordered vanilla. They sat on the patio and ate in silence. 

A’ma seemed as though she wanted to say something, but was hesitant. Over the last few months especially, Bruce had become more adept in reading his grandchildren. Don’t get him wrong, he was already able to identify their emotions, wants, and needs when necessary, but that was completely textbook. His new observations regarding A’ma, Ry’an, Ata, and even Charlie had become completely emotionally-driven. “What’s wrong?” Bruce asked A’ma. 

_Always so direct_, A’ma thought, a bit amused.  “Why don’t Mom and Dad hate me? Why don’t  _you_ hate me?” She inquired while looking at her melting ice cream. 

Bruce sighed inwardly. “We could never hate you, A’mandine,” he stated. “You went through something traumatic, so your mind wasn’t fully there. I understand,” he said patiently. 

A’ma blinked owlishly at her ice cream. “How do you understand?” She asked him. 

Bruce grimaced, but still answered. “I tried it when I was about your age.” 

A’ma stopped.  _What_.  She glanced at him through her peripherals. “Really?” That was the first time in weeks that she sounded her age. 

Bruce clenched his jaw. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly. 

“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m...I’m sorry.” 

Bruce sighed tiredly, putting down his cup. “It’s a part of my past that very few people know,” he admitted, then hesitated. “I wanted to see my parents.” 

A’ma threw her ice cream cup on the table. “_I’m sorry_,” she repeated, but for another reason. 

Bruce furrowed his brows. “Why?” He demanded, making her flinch. _Always so direct. _

“Everyone else has these horrible pasts, but I don’t,” she finally confessed. “I had a good childhood, then she ruined it.” A’ma angrily wiped the tears away. “I’m being too sensitive,” she concluded lamely. She had, in reality, come to that same conclusion only a day after The Incident. 

Bruce huffed out a short breath and clenched his jaw tighter. “We don’t think so,” he declared. A’ma furrowed her brows and opened her mouth. Bruce beat her, though. “A’ma. You went through something traumatic, so you will be traumatized. It’s completely normal,” he reassured her. 

She still wasn’t convinced. 

“You may not have experienced the death of a loved one, but,” Bruce paused, wondering if he should say the next sentence. “But you were brutally raped and tortured.” 

A’ma face scrunched up in a grimace, the tears coming back. Her chest heaved lowly, emotions coming the surface and unable to suppress them anymore. She felt her throat tighten dangerously, and her head felt somehow lighter. 

It was only then that the implications had fully hit her. That she was taken advantage of in more ways than one—that she, in that time, had little control over her body. All for a few men’s pleasure. Who was she to provide that pleasure? Why was she the one to provide that pleasure? How would she ever regain control of her own life when she hasn’t felt in control—disregarding the times she’s cut herself—ever since The Incident? 

“Why,” she stuttered out hoarsely, “why me?” She wondered, tears pouring down her cheeks. 

Bruce closed his eyes, attempting to control his emotions. _Always so direct_, Bruce thought privately, ashamed of himself yet also proud of his granddaughter. Proud of her bravery and resilience. Proud that she was just able to realize her faults, open her mind and heart. 

“I...don’t know.”

* * *

After the conversation with her grandfather, she actually started listening to the therapist. No, she still hadn’t faced any of her triggers, but she  _listened_ to the advice rather than just waste a whole hour. 

It’s an improvement, to say the least. 

A’ma began listening to her parents and their concerns. They were visibly relieved by her docility, so they pushed her to do more things: grocery shopping, watch movies at home, and take her medications. 

That’s another thing—the medications. It started after her attempt. Mar’i and Damian had been hesitant to let their 11-year-old daughter take mind-altering medicine, but they shook off the concern for the well-being of their baby. 

Both parents had grown closer after the incident. A’ma thought it was a way to survive incase she attempted again and actually succeeded. She hated the thought that she still disappointed her parents after apologizing, so she used every chore as a way of redeeming herself. She cleaned the house when she could, listened to her parents, and made sure to do all of her schoolwork. 

One day, while helping her with a new school concept, Mar’i finally brought it up. “Îngeraș, you don’t need to prove to us that you’re a good daughter,” she had stated, and A’ma just furrowed her dark brows and shook her head. 

Mar’i bit her lip. “You need to work hard to prove to  yourself  that you’re an amazing daughter,” Mar’i told her. “Although we already know you’re an amazing daughter,” she finished before explaining a new concept to A’ma. 

A’ma couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the session. 

* * *

She had the full intention to sneak to the cave while her relatives were on patrol. A’ma had craved the presence of the bats while she trained by herself, without any worry for someone breathing down her neck. She had been working hard for the past couple weeks, for her parents, and felt she deserved this. 

Her Grandpa Bruce, who was told to watch over her for the night, had allowed her to go asleep early without any fight. The man was Batman, though. He knew A’ma despised sleeping due to the night terrors which permeated it. However, he allowed this one instance and instead busied himself with watching her over the cameras. Selina had commented something along the lines of, “Can’t take the Bat out of the man, hm?” He pointedly ignored that—this was only for the concern of his granddaughter. 

That’s how A’ma ended up ‘sneaking’ back into the Batcave. It had, at first, been absolutely liberating. She had been able to hit anything she wanted while hearing the faint yet distinct sounds of the bats fluttering around above her.

_I deserve this. _

However, when she saw her father’s old sword, one which she herself had trained with, it fell apart. 

That same night came to her mind—that night in which she had no control over what was to happen to her. That night in which she felt anything _but_ liberated . 

The sword, a mere five feet away from her, sat there, still as always. A’ma had almost expected it to lift suddenly by the hand of the same man. The same man who was the first to rape her. The first to take complete control over her—physically and mentally and emotionally. 

_ This is not liberating .  _

A’ma felt her chest cave, her mind replaying the event before her. She saw herself, could  feel  the metal around her wrists. Could feel the man rip the clothing from her dirty body. Could feel her body being pulled from the chains, then hope, then the dread after she felt the rope being tightened around her wrists. Could feel the blood congregating around her wrists, the friction too strong on her heated skin. Could feel the men finish inside her. Could feel  _everything_. All at once yet it felt too long. 

And everything felt like too much.

_I don’t deserve this. _

Her weak body fought against the men, avoided the swords, clawed her way out of their controlling grasps. However, it was no use. They could still find their ways to her. They continued their pleasures, with all six finishing inside her instead of only four. And she was suddenly struck with the realization that no one was there to help her.  No Red Robin. No Dad. No Mom. No Grandpa Bruce. No Grandpa Dick. No Grandma Babs. 

She was alone this time. 

Except. No. Bruce rushed downstairs after seeing A’ma’s state, his feet rushing beneath him. He heard Selina calling his name faintly in the background, but he didn’t care much. Once he arrived in the cave, Selina trailing behind him, he saw A’ma. 

She had tears pouring down her face, her nails clawed into the floor beneath her. Her eyes had completely glazed over, her face pale, a complete juxtaposition to her usual tan skin tone. She was writing desperately, her hair tangled up.  _She had been at this for a long time. _

“A’ma,” Bruce whispered, unsure of how she would react. The girl cried out, her sob painful and marking a permanent slash on Bruce’s heart. “A’ma,” he repeated, louder. “It’s your Grandpa Bruce,” he stated. 

A’ma paused, her heavy breaths being the only thing to escape her. A few more seconds passed before she uttered, her voice dry and hoarse, “Help.” 

Bruce began walking to the medical center in the Batcave, fully intending to produce a sedative, before he was stopped by his wife’s firm hand. “Don’t,” Selina murmured, her gaze unwavering. 

Bruce paused, unable to think of any other solution, before Selina practically ran over to A’ma. “Hey, A’ma,” she murmured. “It’s your Grandma Selina.” A’ma shivered, then nodded, the motion rough and uncoordinated. Selina, without producing any noise, softly placed A’ma’s head on her lap. 

A’ma choked on a sob, causing both Bruce and Selina to tense up, then she settled back down onto Selina’s lap. Selina took a deep, relieving breath and began gently petting the girl’s hair. A’ma closed her eyes, the tears continuing to make their way down the sides of her face. However, she ignored it on favor of being in the safe presence of her grandparents. 

* * *

The first time she saw her siblings (since The Incident) it was over a month later. Ry’an hugged her tighter than he ever has, then began talking in quick Arabic, explaining how much fun it was at Tim and Steph’s house. Sometimes Uncle Jay would visit and bring some ice cream for him, Ata, and Charlie. 

It was the first time in a month that A’ma had heard someone speaking Arabic. 

Atalaya didn’t seem to know what to do, and only said that she was happy she was still here. 

A’ma cried and apologized profusely. 

* * *

With Ry’an and Atalaya finally home, she felt slightly safer. Although her paranoia  for  them was almost paralyzing, she was glad people who were her age were there for her. A’ma refused to leave the house for days, and made Atalaya stay home with her. She refused to let what happened to her, happen to Ata. 

It was a whole week before she was forced to leave the house with her siblings. The Gotham air felt stuffy and dangerous, so A’ma was constantly holding onto Atalaya and Ry’an. She made a mental map of every single exit wherever they went, thinking of every single incident that could possibly occur. 

_Shooting?_ Nearest exit would take about 13 seconds to get to. If the gunner held them at gunpoint, she would protect her siblings at all costs until someone else made a move or called 911. 

_Earthquake? _ Does she have enough water and food on her for her siblings to survive? The nearest sturdy table is across the store, but she could also cover them with her full body. A broken back is not the  _worst_ thing ever.

_Car accident? _ Always wear seatbelts and have enough supplies in the car to be able to survive for a few hours.

It hadn’t mattered if these incidents were rare. What mattered is that A’ma was prepared to protect her family at all costs. Her fears  had become subconscious by the three month period after the incident. Mar’i and Damian pushed her to continue going out into public despite her worries. 

* * *

Dinah had suggested that she tell someone she trusts what happened. At first, she had brushed it off like any other request that Dinah gave her, but she changed her mind when a particularly bad flashback stopped her from finishing her school work. So, there she was: standing in the music room with her Grandpa Bruce. Her Grandpa Bruce, who had helped her during her first severe flashback. The same person that empathized with her, helped her come to terms with what had happened to her. 

She could pick no one else to confide in, really. A’ma was more grateful for him than she could comprehend. 

Her grandfather waited patiently for her to gather her own thoughts, while she paced back and forth in front of him. It had been a full five minutes before she uttered her first words.

“They injected me with some tranquilizers. I,” A’ma pursed her lips, then continued, “I think they also gave me some suppressors.” 

Her grandfather nodded once, his jaw clenched. “I woke up with my hands chained above my head. My feet weren’t touching the ground,” she explained quietly. Bruce ducked his head slightly, as if to tell her to continue. So she did. “Then  _she_ came into my cell.” 

A’ma could tell that Bruce took in a deep breath. “She started saying that I was a disgrace to our...heritage,” A’ma said angrily, as if she were experiencing the same event again. “She called in two of her...people and started making these...slashes on my arms and thighs,” she told him. 

She herself took a deep breath, once again trying to regain control of her thoughts. “She continued insulting me, then she mentioned Mom. Said she changed Dad for the worst. Said that Dad used to do everything  she did.” A’ma couldn’t look at him directly anymore. She grimaced, then said, “That was the first time I had a panic attack. _Ever_.” 

Bruce looked past her, his face scrunched up so he wouldn’t react so emotionally. A’ma continued, “She ordered four more men in the room, then left them there with me. Completely,” she paused, her voice choked and desperate for water. “Naked,” she breathed out, “and tied with my hands above my head.  She  told them to do anything they wanted, just not kill me.” A’ma cleared her throat. 

“I couldn’t remember much after that. I mean, I remember them unlocking the chains. I was happy for a second, then they tied by hands with rope.” A’ma hesitated again. “I just remember the feeling of the men on top of me. And the smells. Some of the noises,” she recounted, looking distant. “I think four...did that to me, but the other two were too late.” 

A’ma hated how much her lower lip was quivering. She couldn’t face her grandfather yet...see his expression. “I should’ve done  _something_.  My parents are freaking Batman and Nightstar!” She choked out. 

“No.” 

She looked up. “What?”

Bruce sighed. “It doesn’t matter your heritage. You were put in a defenseless situation,” he told her, some aggression laced in his voice. 

A’ma closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I was being stupid.”

“No.” His bass voice boomed through the room, suddenly making her want to run and hide. She guessed it was the same voice he had used for Batman. “You were acting like how a normal 11-year-old girl would act,” he declared. His voice held so much finality, that she dare not attempt to debate over it. 

And she felt loved. 

She felt as though everyone in her life, for the past three months, had said that same statement, but didn’t know what had truly happened. It was unauthentic—a statement based purely on outside observation and not at all because they looked at the situation objectively. But here, one of the most objective men in her life-probably, in the world was telling her that it wasn’t her fault. And for that, she felt loved. 

So she hugged him. 

It was the first hug she had ever given any male person since the incident. He, of course, accepted it awkwardly but whole-heartedly. A’ma only hugged her mother occasionally—and by ‘occasionally’, she meant maybe once a week. Not even her father was given clearance to hug her. He, of course, respected her hesitance, but she knew it was taking a toll on him emotionally. 

When she pulled away from the hug, A’ma suddenly felt exhaustion fall over her like a wave. Her grandfather noticed her sudden tiredness, then excused her for a long nap. 

* * *

A week passed of her having consistent flashbacks, though they were mostly mild. Dinah had informed her that most flashbacks were caused by some sensation—such as a smell or noise. 

A’ma began tracking everything that she heard and smelled before every flashback. She made sure to put it in a journal so they could discuss it over her next session. 

“Keys, knives, any rattling noises,” Dinah read aloud, reading her journal. “I’m glad you tracked everything that triggered a flashback,” the blonde woman praised her. A’ma sat up a little straighter. 

Dinah paused, mulling over her next words. “It seems there’s a trend in them.” 

A’ma blinked, then thought out what it could be. “Me-metal?” She suggested lamely. 

Dinah nodded wisely, giving her back her journal. “It seems like that,” she agreed offhandedly. 

A’ma nodded stiffly, looking down at the journal sadly. 

* * *

It was three months and two weeks after The Incident when she had another depressive episode. It was completely unexpected, as she had been getting better, but A’ma guesses that those things come and go with mental illness. 

She remained in her bedroom and mind for days—only leaving for the occasional snack and water bottle. Her parents and grandparents (including Grandma Selina and Babs), came in and out of her room to make sure she wasn’t making the same choices as before. 

A’ma went back to cutting, but made sure to never go too deep to cause the same accident. She had enough in her medical kits in her room to make sure she wasn’t getting any of them infected. A’ma also made sure to do it at specific times when the family wouldn’t be over and check on her. 

But then, on the eighth day, she was caught by her Grandpa Dick. Her own urges had trumped her remembrance of the schedule. 

Her toes curled as she dug the glass into her skin, the sensations teetering on pleasure and pain. It hadn’t felt the same as when she had first done it (_actually_ done it), so she still craved the same sensation—the foreign sensation of the glass invading her skin, marking her body and ceasing all anxious thoughts. A’ma had always felt so happy, after. Although that happiness was usually temporary, skinny. 

However, when Dick opened her room to only find A’ma with a broken shard of glass, he immediately paced over to her and plucked it out of her hands before she could even notice he had just barged in her room. Her brief hope of happiness dissolved, and she suddenly felt like crying, bawling even. It felt as if she were a child sneaking cookies from the kitchen at night. 

Dick gave her that same sympathetic look that he often served her right after The Incident...and she still hated it. She hated that she felt teary when she noticed it. 

Dick cleaned her wounds (she had made two cuts before he entered the room), asking her a bunch of useless questions. They were mostly asked to crack why she started again, but she didn’t have enough energy to provide full answers. 

Her grandfather stood back up, his body weighted down as if life’s problems began to take a toll on him physically. He closed his eyes, then murmured, “I understand, A’ma.” 

She almost wanted to ask _‘_ _ How? How would you understand?’ _ , but A’ma couldn’t look him in his eyes when she finally recognized the extreme distress in his voice. 

* * *

Of course he fucking told her parents. 

She didn’t know what she expected from a (admittedly concerned) grandparent. But when her parents invaded her room and asked her why she was doing it, she still cursed him out in her head. 

“I don’t fucking know! Okay!?” She felt backed into a corner, as though she were a insect and her parents mammoths. 

Damian rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger before saying, “You need to find a better way to cope.” A’ma rolled her eyes. 

“You need to tell Miss Dinah what you’ve been doing,” her mother declared. Mar’i’s eyes, however, only held concern for her baby. 

A’ma huffed angrily. “She doesn’t need to know!” She yelled. Her hands began shaking wildly, so she clenched them into fists. 

Damian suddenly directed his attention to the ceiling. “She needs to know so she can inform you of  _proper_ coping mechanisms,” he scolded her. 

_That stung a bit._

“I can’t tell her!” A’ma burst out without her consent. Both of her parents directed their attention to her, a waiting explanation on their countenances. A’ma bit her lip nervously. “She will be so disappointed,” the girl admitted. “I was doing okay.” 

Damian clenched his jaw, feeling guilty for his blunt rhetoric. “A’ma,” he said, his brows furrowed sadly, “Dinah can help you find better ways to cope.” His tone was gentler, his expression earnest. “Your Mother and I can help you find better ways. We,” he paused, hesitating, “understand how you feel.” 

A’ma vehemently shook her head. “I just can’t, Baba,” she panicked, the name slipping out of her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, the next words that were supposed to come out of her mouth suffocating her.

She, sometimes, had referred to Damian as that when she was a child, but that was before The Incident. It was only in times of desperation or fear that she called him  that. That was why her eyes glazed over, her body suddenly feeling too light, as light as a feather. She twitched for a razor, shard of glass, anything in order to help her ground herself—make herself heavy again. 

Mar’i closed her eyes sadly, putting the name to the side in order to address the current matter at hand. “Honey, I see so many people in my job who do the same things as you,” she began, capturing A’ma’s attention. Mar’i could visibly see her daughter had been dissociating and needed to pull her back to earth. “I could never feel disappointed in them. I’m not disappointed in you. We all aren’t. We could never be. We understand,” Mar’i reassured her. A’ma shook out her hair, feeling a little more grounded by her mother’s words. 

“It’s okay not to be okay,” Mar’i said. 

_It’s okay not to be okay. _

_It’s okay not to be okay. _

The phrase echoed through her head over and over again. 

_It’s okay not to be okay. _

“Maybe I’ll tell her.” 

* * *

A’ma did end up telling Dinah. At least, a couple sessions after that. 

Still, she was glad with herself that she told Dinah. Mostly because the woman didn’t react disappointedly—she simply nodded and they began talking about other healthy coping mechanisms. 

A’ma felt a small smile lift on her face. 

_It’s okay not to be okay_. 

* * *

A’ma, admittedly, forgot about her twelfth birthday. When she woke up from a successful five hours of sleep and walked downstairs, she was confused about why her Uncle Jay was there and making her favorite breakfast. 

“Uncle Jason?” She hesitated. The man turned around with a spatula in his hand, making her smile a bit. The only other thing he needed was a frilly apron. “What happened?” She asked nervously. 

The man frowned. “It’s your birthday, mija.” 

A’ma blinked owlishly, then turned her attention to the calendar on the fridge. And, sure enough, it was May 2nd. “Oh,” she breathed out. 

“M-hm,” Jason acknowledged. “I guess tus padres are still asleep,” he said offhandedly. 

A’ma nodded, slowly making her way to the seat behind the counter. She watched him as he cooked, and she suddenly felt peaceful. His quiet humming to a song he probably heard on the radio paired with the white noise of the sizzling eggs made something domestic wash over her. 

She heard her parents walking downstairs together, talking quietly to each other. When they finally arrived in the kitchen, Mar’i kissed her head and greeted her quietly. Damian sat in the chair next to her and said, “Happy birthday, A’ma.” 

A’ma suddenly felt a small smile blossom on her face. “Thank you, Dad,” she replied, then placed her head on his bicep. The action felt natural, and for the first time in almost four months A’ma wanted to freely embrace her father. 

Soon enough, she heard her little siblings run into the kitchen, wide smiles on both of their faces. “¡Feliz cumpleaños!” Atalaya exclaimed. 

Ry’an jumped up and down. “Happy birthday, A’mie!” 

A’ma smiled gratefully at her two little siblings. “Thank you,” she replied sleepily. A’ma then tucked her head into her father’s chest, happiness radiating from the young girl. 

In those moments, she feels loved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all and hope you have an amazing day. All love <3

**Author's Note:**

> The number for the suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> The sexual assault hotline website: http://www.rainn.org/
> 
> Other resources: https://victimconnect.org/resources/national-hotlines/
> 
> Someone is always out there to listen.


End file.
